The Distance Beacons Read online

  "Pretty please," I said.

  Henry glowered at me. I knew what he was thinking. And he knew I knew.

  He owed me.

  I met Henry shortly after the Federal troops came up from Atlanta and put an end to the worst of that awful time called the Frenzy. Gwen and I were about fifteen, and we had just moved into our house in Louisburg Square and started to live some semblance of a normal life. It was a hopeful period for many people, but not for Henry Fisher. When I met him, he was in the process of trying to get himself shot to death.

  Darkness was falling, and I was rushing home along Boylston Street in the Back Bay. The Feds had imposed a dusk-to-dawn curfew in the city, and they weren't interested in excuses if they caught you on the streets at night. So when I heard the shouted "Halt!" followed immediately by a gunshot, I wasted no time ducking into the shadows of an abandoned storefront, cursing my stupidity for staying out so late.

  I turned to see a couple of soldiers, rifles raised, walking down the middle of the street. But they weren't walking toward me. They were headed toward a bald man, who held his ground as they approached. "Who do you guys think you are?" he demanded. "Is your only response to any situation to use your rifles? That's precisely the mentality that got us into this mess. I'm out here trying to find my child, and all you want to do is kill me. Can't you see that it's got to stop? How can you be so stupid?"

  He kept talking like that, working himself up into his own frenzy. And then he started walking toward the soldiers. I could tell that this was a mistake. Even back then, before I had been a soldier, I could sense their fear and indecision. Here was a crazy man in a crazy city where they definitely did not want to be, and he was coming toward them, his right hand hidden beneath something (it turned out to be a bolt of fabric), and any second they could die a stupid, useless, painful death. It would be so easy to shoot the guy and get it all over with. No one would mind. No one would question them....

  "We just want to be left alone," he ranted. "Haven't you done enough to us? Can't you just go away and let us solve our own problems? Can't you just go away?"

  The soldiers would have liked nothing better. But they were here, for better or worse. They raised their rifles, but the bald man didn't notice, lost in his own furious world.

  "Daddy!"

  The bald man stopped his harangue. The soldiers lowered their rifles. "Daddy! I've been looking all over for you!" I ran out of the shadows and into Henry Fisher's arms. "Shut up, you dope," I whispered.

  He looked at me. His glazed eyes seemed to refocus. He did as he was told.

  "Better get your father indoors, kid," one of the soldiers said. "You don't know how close he came."

  "Yes, sir. He gets excited sometimes, sir. Won't happen again, sir." I dragged the Angriest Man in America into the abandoned store and kept him there all night, despite his insistence that he had to go out and find his daughter. In the morning we went to the police station on Berkeley Street and found Anarchy happily playing with a holster in a pleasant cell where the nice men had put her until someone came for her. Henry managed to swallow his rage long enough to thank me for saving his life. I had made a grouchy but true friend.

  So what are friends for? Sitting across from me in his study eight years later, Henry knew. "You're making a big mistake, Walter," he said.

  "I know," I replied. "But here I am, asking for your help. What do you say?"

  Henry shrugged. "How can I help? I can't tell you where to find The Second American Revolution. I've never heard of them."

  Swell. "Do you think you would've heard of them, if they existed?"

  "Any crazy person can give himself a name and make a threat," Henry pointed out. "But if the group is real, and their threat is serious, I think I'd have heard something about them."

  I recalled the suggestion Gwen's editor had made. "Maybe some group is using a new name to keep the Feds from tracking them down."

  Henry nodded, and thought for a moment. "If you want to assume that a group is really trying to disrupt the president's visit and the referendum, and they're using a pseudonym, I suppose you have to consider who has the intelligence and the resolve to pull it off. That narrows the choice down considerably. There's a lot of grumbling in this world, Walter, but precious little done about it."

  I refrained from pointing out that he might be considered one of the inactive grumblers. "What groups would you suggest, then?"

  "The only one that comes to mind is the Church of the New Beginning," Henry replied. "I don't think much of Flynn Dobler, but he has a following. And he isn't stupid."

  I considered Henry's suggestion. I knew a little bit about the Church of the New Beginning. "I thought those people just ignored the government and everything associated with it."

  "Correct. But that's a very foolish strategy, Walter. Because what happens if this referendum is successful? Before long the government is in Charlestown and Concord and all the places it stays away from now. And then it'll demand taxes from Dobler's people, and force their children to go to public schools, and draft their young men, and then what's left of Dobler's new beginning? He knows all this. He knows he has a stake in what happens during the next couple of weeks. It wouldn't surprise me if he decided to do something about it."

  Henry made sense. It wasn't much of a lead, maybe, but it was worth looking into. I stood up. "Thanks for your help, Henry. If you hear of anything, will you let me know?"

  Henry didn't seem happy. "I suppose," he said. "But we're even now. Don't expect me to compromise my principles like this again."

  "You're a sweetheart, Henry. I'll let myself out."

  Henry grunted a good-bye, and I made my way back downstairs. Ann waved to me from her sewing machine. "How was he?" she asked.

  "The usual. When are you going to run away from him and move in with a nice guy like me?"

  She considered. "As soon as he finishes his book." I rolled my eyes. "What a waste. No wonder he's never going to finish it."

  "Someday," she said. "Don't be a stranger, Walter."

  "I won't."

  I went out through the shop, unlocked my bicycle, and got on.

  I hadn't pedaled fifty feet before I knew I was in big trouble.

  Chapter 5

  Rounding the corner on foot were two of O'Malley's lieutenants: Pete Santoro and Eddie Grimes. They recognized me as soon as I recognized them. They smiled. I turned and started pedaling in the opposite direction.

  The opposite direction was uphill, however, and I didn't get very far before a large hand grabbed the back of my jersey and pulled me off my bike.

  The hand belonged to Santoro. He was a big man with a black beard, glittering eyes, and a gap-toothed grin. With an earring and a sword he would have made an excellent pirate. His friend Eddie Grimes was also big—O'Malley liked the brawny type—but he had red hair and so many freckles they looked like a disease. Maybe they were a disease. He stood in front of me while Santoro twisted the neck of my jersey. "What're you doing here, asshole?" he said.

  "Arrgh rend," I replied. Santoro's hold on my jersey made conversation rather difficult.

  "What, asshole?"

  Santoro eased off a little. "I'm visiting a friend," I said, gasping for breath. "Just leaving."

  "Oh, I don't think so," Santoro said. "I think you'll probably wanna visit Mr. O'Malley so long as you're in the neighborhood."

  "I couldn't impose on such short notice. Some other time maybe."

  "Mr. O'Malley won't mind," Grimes said. "He likes surprises."

  "If you don't wanna visit," Santoro said, "we'll have to punish you for trespassing. Right here. Right now."

  They were certainly enjoying themselves. Nothing like a little power to brighten a person's day. "Whatever you say," I muttered.

  "That's more like it," Grimes said. He grabbed my bike. "Let's go, Pete."

  "Wait. We gotta pick up the boss's suit."

  "Oh. Right."

  Santoro let go of me and hurried into Henry's sho
p. Grimes held onto the bike and grinned, daring me to try something. I didn't bother. Santoro came back out of the shop a couple of minutes later carrying a long garment bag. Just my luck I visit the Angriest Man in America the day Jim O'Malley's suit is ready.

  And then the three of us marched through the sunny streets of Charlestown to O'Malley's place. I felt frustrated and a little frightened. I didn't imagine O'Malley would have me killed, but he might want to teach me a lesson. And if Santoro and Grimes had anything to do with it, I knew the lesson would be painful.

  Most of the people we passed had a smile and a greeting for the two thugs. Everyone knew whose suit was in the garment bag. Everyone wanted to be friendly with the people who worked for him.

  We ended up across town from Henry's shop, at a grand old Victorian home complete with turrets and a widow's walk and stained glass in the front door. I could imagine an Irish doctor living in it in the old days with his wife and ten kids, the richest family in the neighborhood and happy to flaunt it. Jim O'Malley was also happy to flaunt it. The place looked as if it hadn't aged a day since the doctor's family disappeared from it; it had a new coat of paint, the windows were unbroken and sparkled from a recent washing, the lawn was green and weedless. Two more thugs sat on the front porch and watched us approach. They too grinned when they recognized me. "If it ain't the Sandman," one of them said.

  "Mr. Sands wants to call on the boss," Grimes said. "Is he in?"

  "Sure. Leave the bike here. We'll keep an eye on it for him."

  Santoro and Grimes led me inside. The interior was even more impressive than the outside. There was plenty of good furniture to be scavenged, of course, and O'Malley had clearly kept the best of what came his way. I felt as if I had entered a museum. My two captors led me to a pair of large oak pocket doors at the side of the foyer. Santoro knocked softly.

  "Who is it?" a loud, deep voice called out.

  "It's Pete, Jim. Eddie and me ran into a piece of scum we thought you might wanna see."

  "Did you get my suit?"

  "Sure thing."

  "All right. Come in."

  They slid the doors open and pushed me into O'Malley's office. I noted the sculpted ceiling moldings, the flocked wallpaper, the polished parquet floor. It occurred to me that O'Malley had a better office than the governor. He even had an air conditioner running, although it wasn't particularly hot out; this was the kind of guy who believed in conspicuous consumption.

  O'Malley was tall and sandy-haired, with thin features and penetrating blue eyes. He was wearing a three-piece suit, a starched white shirt, and a silk tie. I thought he looked silly. He smiled at me. He was missing a couple of teeth. I suppose he could have had them replaced; maybe he thought the gaps made him look dangerous. "Walter Sands," he boomed. "What a pleasure to see you."

  The funny thing was, he sounded as if he meant it. "Great office," I said.

  "We found him over by the Monument, Jim," Grimes said. "Sneakin' around."

  "Just visiting a friend," I explained. "Didn't mean any harm."

  "I think we oughta show him what happens to people who sneak into Charlestown," Santoro said.

  O'Malley glanced at his bearded lieutenant. "Bring my suit upstairs," he ordered.

  Santoro's face clouded over for a brief moment. When he was a young boy, had he dreamed of growing up to run errands for a hoodlum? The cloud passed. "Sure thing, Jim," he replied. He hurried out of the room.

  "Get Mr. Sands a chair," O'Malley said to Grimes.

  Grimes also did as he was told, bringing me an elegant carved oak chair from a corner of the room. "Thanks so much," I murmured to him as I sat down. He muttered a naughty word.

  O'Malley's gaze returned to me. "I read that article about you in the paper," he said. "Going to England and all. I didn't think you had it in you. You were stupid to come back, though."

  "That's what everyone keeps telling me."

  "Still working for Gallagher?"

  "Off and on. Not today, though," I hastened to add.

  O'Malley shrugged. "Bobby Gallagher and I go back a long way. Back when things were a lot wilder than they are now. Two micks on the make." He grinned a gap-toothed grin. It made him look a bit like Santoro, but not much. "One time we got in a shootout together—did he ever tell you? Down on the South Shore somewhere, Weymouth maybe. We heard there was an auto supply store that hadn't been touched. Bobby and I weren't going to steal anything, mind you, we just wanted to do business with the owners. But this bunch of cavemen opened fire on us as soon as our van turned the corner. Shot out a tire, so we couldn't get out of there.

  "So we're shooting back and forth for a while, and things are getting pretty tense because we're running out of ammo, okay, and then what are we gonna do? But then I got an idea. This van had a terrific stereo system, see? So I put in a disk, and I crank up the volume, and all of a sudden 'Stairway to Heaven' is booming out so loud I think I cracked an eardrum.

  "And the cavemen stop shooting. After a minute they start crawling out of the auto parts place, and we kinda put up our hands—you know, we come in peace—and pretty soon we're having a great time. CDs were harder to come by than auto parts, see—a lot more fragile. These guys had alternators up the wazoo, but the only CD they had left was, I dunno, Jerry Vale's Greatest Hits or something. So we were like bringing gifts from the gods. Probably the only time Led Zeppelin ever contributed to peace and mutual understanding—and saved a couple of lives. Also, we got a great deal on the alternators." O'Malley smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Bobby ever tell you that story?"

  I shook my head. "It's quite a story," I said. Bobby had told it to me maybe forty or fifty times. Except in his version, he was the one who thought to play the Led Zeppelin CD and thereby saved the day. Memory is a tricky thing.

  "Yeah, those were the days," O'Malley said. "There was scope for the individual entrepreneur back then. You know what I'm saying?"

  "Things just aren't what they used to be," I agreed.

  He nodded. "Bobby's problem is that he hasn't changed with the times. He wants to keep on being an individual entrepreneur, but it isn't gonna work. You gotta operate on a larger scale nowadays, or you get squeezed out by the big boys—like me. You gotta grow or die. Right?"

  "Uh-huh." I was now more bored than frightened. I didn't really need a lecture on economics, any more than I needed a history lecture from the Angriest Man in America.

  O'Malley regarded me. "My operation is growing, Sands," he said. "I'm big now, but I'm only gonna get bigger. That means I'm gonna need good people. People with intelligence. People with management skills. Like you."

  Uh-oh. "Me?" I managed to say.

  "Sure. You're a smart guy, even if you did come back from England. Muscle is easy to find," he said, gesturing in the direction of Eddie Grimes, who didn't look happy. "Intelligence isn't. So waddaya say?"

  "I'm flattered," I replied carefully. "But I'm kind of a loner. I don't think I'd fit in."

  "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" O'Malley shifted in his chair. "Look," he went on, "I'm talking about the future here. People who don't come onboard are gonna get left behind. People like Bobby Gallagher. You say you're a loner—well, you don't know how lonely things can get. Everything in this city is mine for the taking—and believe me, I'm gonna take it. You know what I'm saying?"

  I supposed I did. "I guess I'm going to get left behind," I said.

  "Think about it," O'Malley insisted.

  I shook my head. "Nothing to think about."

  There was a moment of silence, and then O'Malley's expression went blank. It was scary. I wondered how many people said no to him in the course of an average working day. "Throw him out," he murmured to Grimes, and he turned away.

  I stood up. Grimes was grinning. Santoro was standing by the sliding doors to the office, minus the garment bag. He was grinning too. I walked out of the office, with the two flunkies following close behind.

  "For a supposedly intelligent guy, th
at was a pretty stupid thing to do," Santoro said as we reached the porch.

  I shrugged. "I don't feel like picking up some thug's laundry," I said. "Did you hear the way he talked about you in there?"

  The two men exchanged a glance. "We do important things too," Grimes said.

  "Very important things," Santoro agreed.

  "It's your life," I murmured. I went to get my bike.

  "Not so fast," Santoro said. "The bike stays here. We're confiscating it."

  "Oh, come on. I haven't done anything." Taking someone's bike was a big deal. Like clothes, bikes don't appear in shopping malls by magic anymore.

  "You've pissed us off," Grimes said. "That's enough. You got a complaint, go talk to Jim."

  I looked around. Grimes, Santoro, the two guys on the porch—everyone was grinning at me. It was a wonderful joke. "At least give me a ride out of Charlestown?" I asked.

  They thought that was pretty funny too. I sighed and started walking.

  Chapter 6

  The Church of the New Beginning is northwest of Charlestown, in Concord. It would've been a long trip even on a bicycle; on foot it was impossible, unless I wanted to spend the night on the road. So instead, I reluctantly headed south. It wasn't far to South Boston, but the distance seemed immense to me; I wasn't headed in the right direction, physically or professionally, and that made every step a chore. I was exhausted (and very hungry) by the time I reached my destination.

  It was not a pretty street. No trees, no grass, no flowers, just an endless stretch of cracked asphalt lined by rusty warehouses with ancient trucks pulled up to them. Most of the people you see on this street are in a hurry, and armed. It is the kind of street you stay away from unless you are up to something illegal or dangerous.

  But the weather was apparently too nice for anything illegal or dangerous to be happening on this particular day. Outside of the warehouse that was my destination, a table had been set up, and three men were playing cards. One was a fat, middle-aged fellow who didn't see very well; his name was Bobby Gallagher. To Bobby's left was his driver, a short man named Mickey with a shriveled arm. Seated with his back to me was a black kid named Doctor J. He did a little bit of everything for Bobby. I was sure he was winning the card game.